Post by Kyle Shane on Nov 20, 2017 19:55:17 GMT -5
The grip yells "Cut!" and the bell rings, and that's the end of my day. I'm already looking for a robe to cover my 'wardrobe', not just because the feeling of the spray tan sizzling under the lights is not pleasant, but even after all of the interviews, I can't help but feel like some of the men manning cameras are leering at me.
As I make my way back to Julie in makeup, I see Kevin Parkstein ,who's production house have bankrolled this film, and with an executive producer on the set everyone is making airs of doing their best to look busy and essential to the business. As Julie brushes on another layer, though, I can tell Parkstein is looking at me. The old, jowly, battleship frowns around a cigar, and he exchanges a few more words with the director, still looking at me. I look back, no fear.
I've been a lot of things in my time. Wrestling valet, ring rat to a former champion, teenage runaway from home... model, aspiring actress... but since the news about abusers and men in power being ousted has become national news, I've become a face and a name in a story. So if this is a story about powerful men who have unjustly taken control away from people below them, then it's a subject I know about.
The assistant director comes over with Parkstein looming right behind like a threat. He says "Good work on that take, Array, if I can just give you a few notes for next time, in the scene where Tyler dramatically monologues about his mother before the big match, if you could just be a little more... attentive to the camera..."
"He's trying to say that you need to poke your tits out more," Parkstein said, transferring the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
"And I hope you know, Mister Parkstein," I say, meeting his eyes, "That that's not an appropriate direction to be giving to young actresses."
He takes the cigar out of his mouth, gestures for someone with an armload of script pages all falling out of his hands. "I was just being frank with you. We should all appreciate honest, open direction on movie sets, less nitpicking and reading between the lines. Now I waved you through casting because you had the vision we were looking for, the verve, the spunk - " the rack, he's thinking but not saying, I know how it works... "But we didn't have to after your interview with the New York Post."
"Mmm, I know, Kevin..." trying to put on the most humbled and gracious face I can, but it's bitter and tastes like ashes. Despite it all, I do want to continue living my life, or making some part of it away from Boston.
He frames his vision with his hands before us, "Now this is going to be an important picture, really grab the zeitgeist of the people. It's gritty, it's got drama, it's got a hero people pull for. What we need from you is to play your part."
"But that's just it, Kevin," I say, and deferring to the assistant as well, "This script has nothing for me to do. Half of it just says that I stand by in skimpy clothes waiting in Tyler's locker room. Why don't we let Katy get some kind of arc going, give her some agency to empower her, maybe let her go out there and wrestle instead..."
The assistant groans, and the writer (one of a team of four, which is never a good sign in the rewrite world) throws several pages in frustration "Another rewrite?!"
"I just think it would be easier to get into character if - "
"Listen, kid, you're cute - can I still say that? But alls we care about is you getting into wardrobe" the executive says dismissively. And even though all I've fought for to gain ground for myself and girls like me, it still feels like ashes right now. I took this job because I do need work, and I'm still being treated like just a T & A model.
The assistant waves to the crew, saying "Pick it up with a tight shot on Tyler as he gives his monologue about facing the Confessor, okay?"
Chagrinned and hurting in spirit from the dismissal of my supposed peers, while I'm off the the side, a cocky, spry young blade is posing in a locker room, his hair coiffed up into a spikey nightmare, his tights adorned with familiar symbols. I listen to his halting, stilted delivery and I try not to laugh my ass off. For the amount this movie is over budget, the fact that this kid passed checks at casting and wardrobe is bleakly hilarious.
"So this Thursday, at Bloodbath, I will step into the ring, THIS RING, that I love, against a perversion of twisted religious nonsense, a demagogue of hatred leading a cult of slow witted followers. It's a match that's being pushed forward as the servants of God versus a god sent entity. But Katy, I don't have any fear in my heart. You see I, uh, I -...... ....Jesus christ, line?"
I sigh at the fact my career's still in such a nascent stage that I had to beg my agent to get me a meeting.
"Array, honey, your cell phone," says a helpful PA I've never learned the name of, who brings me my phone from my trailer. I'm surprised to see I've missed a few texts, and they aren't from home.
"The Confessor and his stupid, weak minded little troll of a henchman. Those pathetic, lowly worms have made a mockery of everything that's good about the wrestling business, about the pure sport of competition. Well, I thrive on competition, and I -"
"God, Array... really?" A sharp, sardonic voice cuts through the air like a knife. I look up, and despite myself I can't help but let my face break into a happy grin. He's standing there, watching me, and a part of me gets just as giddy as it did the first time our eyes met across a Kappa Sigma Mau living room. It feels like time suspends, everything slows to a crawl, and his cocky grin breaks like a spring dawn. His eyes ask me our unspoken contract, everything the same? And despite the fact that we were supposed to be doing the break thing so I could find myself, on this alien and frigid movie set I am very much happy to see the only boy I've ever really loved.
And then I punch him in the arm, that transcendent moment of coming together again happiness put on the backburner because I really am angry about him showing up like this. "You said you weren't going to do this. I needed time."
"Time? Time to what? Last I heard, you were with that modelling agency out in Orlando..."
"So you haven't heard the news about that? Or, like... read the papers?" I say, but I also know there was a big complicated thing going on with him last time our paths sorta converged, some shit about a psychiatrist lady recruiting him into a hacker collective run by a long-lost maybe half brother I don't fucking know, it was confusing. He laughs it off easily, shrugging and saying "I guess we do have a lot to catch up on..." and he reaches for my hand.
I slap it away, still not wanting contact. Even though when he touches me it feels like electric light being passed over my body, but I don't want touching. We aren't there. He hasn't earned it. "I missed you," is all he says, regarding me with serious, boyish earnestness. And I know he isn't playing me, because he lets his guard down for me. But while he missed me, who else is he missing, or who else has he been trying to forget me with is the question.
"Things still need working out between us, Kyle. I love you, but we've been doing this on and off, stop and go since I was 16," I say, crossing my arms over my chiffon robe. I don't want him getting the wrong ideas here. "When we're on, we're on fire, baby, but when we take a stop to breathe you have to admit that our love has some deeply problematic flaws."
"Hey," he protests, getting defensive, his brows knitting together. "Thing have changed now, I've changed. I'm a father now."
I give him a little half-smile even though when I hear that it's like a stab wound, because the boy has a tendency to cope with his man pain by sleeping around. So if I were to hear about a kid all of a sudden, I have to wonder if a rubber broke somewhere while he was on tour. This is just the least thing that comes between us, but it is there. Trying not to sound petty, I ask, "Oh, nice, do you know the mom?"
He looks anywhere except at me all of a sudden, scratching the back of his head. "Uh, yeah, it was Izzy. She had a son ten years ago, last time I saw her... Johnny. You should meet him, he's a real good boy. He's so much like her, I - " and this is causing him an unfamiliar sensation of pain, and he's trying any way he can to run from it, but he can't around me.
I take his hand, in sympathy, and he sighs and relaxes into my grip, unclenching.
"Cut! Alastair, babe, we need more emotion from you when you're talking about your match. Why do you want to stop these people? Alright, uh... roll it, take five." Someone claps a board.
"These demented cultists are weak. They hide behind their scripture and justify whatever they do as the will of their God, but they are just using it to cheat and steal. I believe in doing things the honorable way, the right way, and succeeding on your own terms. What they are is an affront to everything I stand for."
"Yeesh, who writes this corny garbage?" comes the MST3K roasting, as we both watch leaning against the makeup counter.
I punch Kyle in the arm again, and he laughs. "Seriously, kid, you've got talent, why are you slumming it on this? What kind of story is this about anyway?"
"This is just me trying to have a career after I outed someone as a sexual predator. A couple producers are skittish to have me on now." I say, steeling my voice up so that I don't feel like breaking. "But the circles I was walking in, it was so commonplace, I had to speak up. Somebody has to do something when powerful assholes think they can go around grabbing whatever they want."
He grunts laconically as if that hits some chord he can relate to.
"So how's your career going?" I say, looking over. Getting invested in his work is hard because he wants to keep me at a distance from it. He never meant to get so into it as he did, but it became just another addiction he grabbed on to. Thrill of competing, of succeeding, all of that. It made him much more faithful to wrestling than he ever was to anything. So he takes his time before answering.
"I'm at this point in this company, Pure Class Wrestling, where everything I've worked towards for an entire year's coming together. I've pushed so hard, against considerable blowback to rise. And it's been kicking my ass, kid." Again, that frank earnestness from him. He looks up, into the lights on set, "For a while there, every single time I thought I was gaining a foothold something knocked it out from under me. But I kept at it. And I succeeded on my terms. I won titles, and a tournament, and beat people that nobody ever gave me a shake against. Now that I'm almost there, though... I don't know what to say."
"You think you can't do it?" I ask gingerly, knowing that his ego flares up hotly when it's prodded, but he chews over the words thoughtfully. "Nah, I know that I'm capable of winning against this goober in a straight one on one match. Provided he doesn't have his little gimp cheat me again. See, there's this squatty little asshole that's always around him named Gabriel, his so-called Deacon, and that guy and me have been butting heads for months, and I've kicked his ass at least twice now, but he showed a willingness to use any means neccessary that I didn't play. Of course, when Gabriel tried those same tactics again on someone else, they saw him coming, because he's predictable. It really just highlighted an entire issue with both him and his boss Seromine, right? Kind of exposed them for frauds. So I know when push comes to shove, if I get one of them alone, and I keep a keen eye out on those tricks, then the wrestling skill just isn't there. But no, that's not the issue. I can beat one guy nobody thinks I had a chance of winning against... but the problem is, more often than not, I feel like I'm competing against the entire culture of Pure Class Wrestling. Against the way they do everything. And that's when I feel like I'm losing ground."
I do love Kyle, and I love that sometimes I'm the one person he can be honest with. But I think what a lot of people don't see is that the insecurity is part and parcel of who he is as a person. Sometimes, I know he doesn't, but I count it as a triumph any time he shows up. But he is never satisfied. "Isn't that what comes along with calling yourself a Game Changer?"
He breaks into a grin, "You have been watching."
"Well yeah, duh." Laughs. "It's not just arrogance though. What you're describing is the fact that you do go against the grain of what they want because you're trying to change things for the better. I mean, it sounds admirable."
"Yeah, well, I've just had to get my balls crushed by a gimp in Amish clothing to get there." Sudden bitterness.
I sigh. I lean into him a little bit, so that our sides are touching. "Listen, you don't need a motivational speech from the plucky ex-girlfriend. You know full well what you're doing, and if you find a formula that enables you to get into the groove, you can do it. You prevailed against the longest odds of your life to win that match against Stormm and get the title shot. You have worked so hard to get to where you are. Don't let anyone, especially yourself, tell you you're not ready for this, because you've been working hard for it, babe."
We don't say anything else for a little while, sitting in companionable silence, but I'm so glad he's here in the moment. Finally, I can hear him say under his breath, "thank you."
The director yells for a cut again, and the bell rings signalling the end of a scene. As the grips and camera crew move away as we go for a break, I see another face making a beeline for us, and I groan internally. Kyle tilts his head with abject curiosity at the suspect swaggering over to us, a shit eating grin plastered all over his Aussie face. "Array! How are ya, darlin, listen, I can't wait until we rehearse the next scene, I wanna run lines for our big heart to heart in bed tonight... and do you think when we do the sex scene they're going to let us - "
"Um. Alastair." I clear my throat and jab a hand over Kyle's way. "This is Kyle."
"Hey man," he says with the glib, vapid million watt smile of a movie star meeting a fan, slapping his hand and reaching as if to sign an autograph.
"My boyfriend."
"...Hey." Alastair becomes a lot more fearful, starting to remove his hand from the handshake.
"We're on a break."
"HOWYADOINPAL" Alastair says with sudden enthusiasm, pumping Kyle's hand, grinning like he's just won an unexpected lottery.
Kyle's face is struggling between amusement and wanting to strangle this interloper, with just a hint of childish jealousy. He half turns to look at me with a smile, and his voice sounds strained. "Hi, Alastair, big fan of your work, I picked up your last movie really cheap in that bin at Walmart. Hahaha. So glad you're working with my girl here."
"Haha, ah man, Array, this guy's a funny one!" the Australian bro is strong in this one, as Alastair remains affable.
"So what movie is this? And who is your character?"
"Oh, man, you don't know? This movie is about a cocky young kid who becomes a wrestler after his mum dies in an accident, and he uses wrestling as a coping mechanism to hide from the real world." Alastair looks incredulous. Then he takes a step back so we can all admire his bulked up physique, his tight pants with video game symbols embroided on, the whole ensemble. "I'm Tyler Zane, the Game Boy!!"
I can audibly hear the tendons in Kyle's neck creaking as he turns his head to look at me, with his mouth a firm line and his eyes screaming. I mouth the words "I am so sorry" back to him.
Kyle extracts himself from my side, putting on a fake smile, "Well, I should let you two rehearse that scene, then."
"Okay, but Kyle," I say, and this time I do take his hand, "Dinner later? We have a lot to talk about..."
He looks down at me softly, and smirks, "Everything the same, love." And he walks off away from the set. Alastair, by my side, looks after him with confusion. "Well, he's a bit of a right cunt in't he?" I slam an elbow into his ribs. Something about watching Kyle walk off on his own hurts. But that's standard operating procedure between he and I. Something always hurts. He's honest with me to a fault, but we hurt over and over. Sometimes I think that I've had more damage, more shit come with a relationship than with any producer getting inappropriate with me ever has.
"Alastair, I'll be right with you, mkay? I'm going to be in my trailer," I tell him, and I finally get to listening to my voicemail. A brusque voice gives me a short message with a phone number, among all the other offers I get in my inbox. But I'm still thinking of me and him when I get to my trailer and finally get to put on a pair of pants for the first time since call to the set. About hurting. And about how we always reach a point where hearts break. The fact is it's usually more mine than his, which does give question to the disparity of who usually holds the power in our relationship. It's a bleak thought, but it's hard to discount. That the gamer is always reluctant to give up control. Even now, when your heroine tries to break off and find her own quest, the player one refuses to let her have her turn fully. I'm thinking about talking with him about this over dinner as I start dialing the number the lady in my voice mail had barked at me.
"I'm glad you finally called me back," says the cigarette-roughed voice on the other end of the line, "I've been going through your agents for a few days now."
"Who am I speaking with?" I say, cautiously, not betraying any emotion.
"My name is Elizabeth Harper, I'm with the Boston Globe, and I'm doing research on a story that has connections to you. You are Array Kadima, daughter of Fazir Kadima, professor of biotech research at MIT, correct?"
"Yees," I say. Me and my dad haven't talked much. Not since he disowned me, and the few times I've tried to come in from the cold. He didn't like his saintly daughter being defiled as he put it. But I get the feeling this isn't about dad.
"I read your article in Orlando, about the incidents that happened on the set of the Vancome shoots and the calendars with Mario d'Affirenze. He's been outted as a serious sexual predator, thanks in part to your talking to the Sun." I can hear the rustling of papers, as if she's looking through notes on the other end.
I don't want to think about Mario on the set. The way he touched me, gently massaging my shoulders, trying to ingratiate himself to me, and then the suggestive things he whispered in my ear that I could do to boost my profile. Talking with the other girls, it was a horror show of realizing that some of them had worked on shoots with him for years, and had to put up with it in silence. It was even more horrifying that some of them said that those that tried to speak out found themselves out of work. There was a blue shield, a code of silence that protected creeps like that in the modelling world, and everywhere.
"If we can speak frankly, Array, this is an unprecedented time in our lives. People are coming out of the shadows with stories of abuse, naming wounds that happened five, ten, twenty years ago. Powerful people are being put in the spotlight, Fierstein, Spacey, and so on... people like Mario d'Affirenze, who victimized a growing number of young girls. The modelling world... it's tough, right? You're 17, and being asked to do these things..."
"I've said all I can say about Mario," I cut Miss Harper off, "I said it all the the Orlando Sun last year, and Mario has lost his career because of it. I don't know what more I can do to get justice for his victims."
"Well, Array, Mario is far from the only predator you've had contact with all of these years. I want to talk to you about MIT. About unsubstantiated rumors of a frat party at Kappa Sigma Mau's chapter in the fall of 2011, and about a group of young high school girls that attended that party."
A stone dropped into the pit of my stomach as I saw where this was leading.
"Rumors say that there was a local plug on campus providing rohypnol, ecstasy, and other goodies to the Kappa Sigma boys, and that some things might have been slipped into a few drinks. Do you know anything about that?"
"I know these things happen at frats all the time," I say quickly, trying not to think of it. It was such a weird time in my life. I was just acting out, sneaking a couple girlfriends into a party I knew about at dad's school. And then, a boy on the lacrosse team was passing me a cup, and everything was a blur, until someone pulled me out of the crowd. As the world was swirling in drunken color, all I remember was his concerned face, pulling me out, like a lifeguard saving someone from the riptide.
"In today's climate, there needs to be accountability for dangerous perpetrators who use their status and influence to steal from underprivileged, don't you agree." Elizabeth Harper said. She was trying to sound sympathetic, which almost but didn't quite work with her cold, businesslike voice.
"I do agree to that," I say, carefully as picking through a minefield. Because I do believe in justice.
"So, don't you think there needs to be accountability for the creep who provided the drugs, and handed them out, knowingly trying to influence the decisions of those not able to consent? Or, say, if an adult in full possession of his faculties was to aid a sixteen year old in running away from home?"
And here we come to the biggest dilemma. Because in a perfect world, none of this would be neccessary. But there are layers of subtlely and nuance, like the way he looked at me when I woke up the morning after, that Miss Harper, sitting in an office at the Boston Globe, can never understand. But in the cold light of day, what's she's describing is a twisted form of truth. Yes, it was abuse. Hashtag, me too. But Kyle... Kyle... I'm sorry for this. Because if Harper has this, there's no way it isn't already out there. It's out, Kyle.
"So if you name him, this hypothetical adult, who contributed to the delinquency and corruption of a minor, you might be helping not only the sixteen year old, wherever she is now, but who knows how many girls out there who've suffered the same fate? Well. Maybe you want to think about this for a while before giving me your version, because all I have are secondhand accounts..."
"I don't have anything to tell you, Miss Harper. I'm sorry."
"Really? Well, Array, my sources say different, but if you want to cover for him..."
"No."
"I'm not covering anything at all."
As I make my way back to Julie in makeup, I see Kevin Parkstein ,who's production house have bankrolled this film, and with an executive producer on the set everyone is making airs of doing their best to look busy and essential to the business. As Julie brushes on another layer, though, I can tell Parkstein is looking at me. The old, jowly, battleship frowns around a cigar, and he exchanges a few more words with the director, still looking at me. I look back, no fear.
I've been a lot of things in my time. Wrestling valet, ring rat to a former champion, teenage runaway from home... model, aspiring actress... but since the news about abusers and men in power being ousted has become national news, I've become a face and a name in a story. So if this is a story about powerful men who have unjustly taken control away from people below them, then it's a subject I know about.
The assistant director comes over with Parkstein looming right behind like a threat. He says "Good work on that take, Array, if I can just give you a few notes for next time, in the scene where Tyler dramatically monologues about his mother before the big match, if you could just be a little more... attentive to the camera..."
"He's trying to say that you need to poke your tits out more," Parkstein said, transferring the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
"And I hope you know, Mister Parkstein," I say, meeting his eyes, "That that's not an appropriate direction to be giving to young actresses."
He takes the cigar out of his mouth, gestures for someone with an armload of script pages all falling out of his hands. "I was just being frank with you. We should all appreciate honest, open direction on movie sets, less nitpicking and reading between the lines. Now I waved you through casting because you had the vision we were looking for, the verve, the spunk - " the rack, he's thinking but not saying, I know how it works... "But we didn't have to after your interview with the New York Post."
"Mmm, I know, Kevin..." trying to put on the most humbled and gracious face I can, but it's bitter and tastes like ashes. Despite it all, I do want to continue living my life, or making some part of it away from Boston.
He frames his vision with his hands before us, "Now this is going to be an important picture, really grab the zeitgeist of the people. It's gritty, it's got drama, it's got a hero people pull for. What we need from you is to play your part."
"But that's just it, Kevin," I say, and deferring to the assistant as well, "This script has nothing for me to do. Half of it just says that I stand by in skimpy clothes waiting in Tyler's locker room. Why don't we let Katy get some kind of arc going, give her some agency to empower her, maybe let her go out there and wrestle instead..."
The assistant groans, and the writer (one of a team of four, which is never a good sign in the rewrite world) throws several pages in frustration "Another rewrite?!"
"I just think it would be easier to get into character if - "
"Listen, kid, you're cute - can I still say that? But alls we care about is you getting into wardrobe" the executive says dismissively. And even though all I've fought for to gain ground for myself and girls like me, it still feels like ashes right now. I took this job because I do need work, and I'm still being treated like just a T & A model.
The assistant waves to the crew, saying "Pick it up with a tight shot on Tyler as he gives his monologue about facing the Confessor, okay?"
Chagrinned and hurting in spirit from the dismissal of my supposed peers, while I'm off the the side, a cocky, spry young blade is posing in a locker room, his hair coiffed up into a spikey nightmare, his tights adorned with familiar symbols. I listen to his halting, stilted delivery and I try not to laugh my ass off. For the amount this movie is over budget, the fact that this kid passed checks at casting and wardrobe is bleakly hilarious.
"So this Thursday, at Bloodbath, I will step into the ring, THIS RING, that I love, against a perversion of twisted religious nonsense, a demagogue of hatred leading a cult of slow witted followers. It's a match that's being pushed forward as the servants of God versus a god sent entity. But Katy, I don't have any fear in my heart. You see I, uh, I -...... ....Jesus christ, line?"
I sigh at the fact my career's still in such a nascent stage that I had to beg my agent to get me a meeting.
"Array, honey, your cell phone," says a helpful PA I've never learned the name of, who brings me my phone from my trailer. I'm surprised to see I've missed a few texts, and they aren't from home.
"The Confessor and his stupid, weak minded little troll of a henchman. Those pathetic, lowly worms have made a mockery of everything that's good about the wrestling business, about the pure sport of competition. Well, I thrive on competition, and I -"
"God, Array... really?" A sharp, sardonic voice cuts through the air like a knife. I look up, and despite myself I can't help but let my face break into a happy grin. He's standing there, watching me, and a part of me gets just as giddy as it did the first time our eyes met across a Kappa Sigma Mau living room. It feels like time suspends, everything slows to a crawl, and his cocky grin breaks like a spring dawn. His eyes ask me our unspoken contract, everything the same? And despite the fact that we were supposed to be doing the break thing so I could find myself, on this alien and frigid movie set I am very much happy to see the only boy I've ever really loved.
And then I punch him in the arm, that transcendent moment of coming together again happiness put on the backburner because I really am angry about him showing up like this. "You said you weren't going to do this. I needed time."
"Time? Time to what? Last I heard, you were with that modelling agency out in Orlando..."
"So you haven't heard the news about that? Or, like... read the papers?" I say, but I also know there was a big complicated thing going on with him last time our paths sorta converged, some shit about a psychiatrist lady recruiting him into a hacker collective run by a long-lost maybe half brother I don't fucking know, it was confusing. He laughs it off easily, shrugging and saying "I guess we do have a lot to catch up on..." and he reaches for my hand.
I slap it away, still not wanting contact. Even though when he touches me it feels like electric light being passed over my body, but I don't want touching. We aren't there. He hasn't earned it. "I missed you," is all he says, regarding me with serious, boyish earnestness. And I know he isn't playing me, because he lets his guard down for me. But while he missed me, who else is he missing, or who else has he been trying to forget me with is the question.
"Things still need working out between us, Kyle. I love you, but we've been doing this on and off, stop and go since I was 16," I say, crossing my arms over my chiffon robe. I don't want him getting the wrong ideas here. "When we're on, we're on fire, baby, but when we take a stop to breathe you have to admit that our love has some deeply problematic flaws."
"Hey," he protests, getting defensive, his brows knitting together. "Thing have changed now, I've changed. I'm a father now."
I give him a little half-smile even though when I hear that it's like a stab wound, because the boy has a tendency to cope with his man pain by sleeping around. So if I were to hear about a kid all of a sudden, I have to wonder if a rubber broke somewhere while he was on tour. This is just the least thing that comes between us, but it is there. Trying not to sound petty, I ask, "Oh, nice, do you know the mom?"
He looks anywhere except at me all of a sudden, scratching the back of his head. "Uh, yeah, it was Izzy. She had a son ten years ago, last time I saw her... Johnny. You should meet him, he's a real good boy. He's so much like her, I - " and this is causing him an unfamiliar sensation of pain, and he's trying any way he can to run from it, but he can't around me.
I take his hand, in sympathy, and he sighs and relaxes into my grip, unclenching.
"Cut! Alastair, babe, we need more emotion from you when you're talking about your match. Why do you want to stop these people? Alright, uh... roll it, take five." Someone claps a board.
"These demented cultists are weak. They hide behind their scripture and justify whatever they do as the will of their God, but they are just using it to cheat and steal. I believe in doing things the honorable way, the right way, and succeeding on your own terms. What they are is an affront to everything I stand for."
"Yeesh, who writes this corny garbage?" comes the MST3K roasting, as we both watch leaning against the makeup counter.
I punch Kyle in the arm again, and he laughs. "Seriously, kid, you've got talent, why are you slumming it on this? What kind of story is this about anyway?"
"This is just me trying to have a career after I outed someone as a sexual predator. A couple producers are skittish to have me on now." I say, steeling my voice up so that I don't feel like breaking. "But the circles I was walking in, it was so commonplace, I had to speak up. Somebody has to do something when powerful assholes think they can go around grabbing whatever they want."
He grunts laconically as if that hits some chord he can relate to.
"So how's your career going?" I say, looking over. Getting invested in his work is hard because he wants to keep me at a distance from it. He never meant to get so into it as he did, but it became just another addiction he grabbed on to. Thrill of competing, of succeeding, all of that. It made him much more faithful to wrestling than he ever was to anything. So he takes his time before answering.
"I'm at this point in this company, Pure Class Wrestling, where everything I've worked towards for an entire year's coming together. I've pushed so hard, against considerable blowback to rise. And it's been kicking my ass, kid." Again, that frank earnestness from him. He looks up, into the lights on set, "For a while there, every single time I thought I was gaining a foothold something knocked it out from under me. But I kept at it. And I succeeded on my terms. I won titles, and a tournament, and beat people that nobody ever gave me a shake against. Now that I'm almost there, though... I don't know what to say."
"You think you can't do it?" I ask gingerly, knowing that his ego flares up hotly when it's prodded, but he chews over the words thoughtfully. "Nah, I know that I'm capable of winning against this goober in a straight one on one match. Provided he doesn't have his little gimp cheat me again. See, there's this squatty little asshole that's always around him named Gabriel, his so-called Deacon, and that guy and me have been butting heads for months, and I've kicked his ass at least twice now, but he showed a willingness to use any means neccessary that I didn't play. Of course, when Gabriel tried those same tactics again on someone else, they saw him coming, because he's predictable. It really just highlighted an entire issue with both him and his boss Seromine, right? Kind of exposed them for frauds. So I know when push comes to shove, if I get one of them alone, and I keep a keen eye out on those tricks, then the wrestling skill just isn't there. But no, that's not the issue. I can beat one guy nobody thinks I had a chance of winning against... but the problem is, more often than not, I feel like I'm competing against the entire culture of Pure Class Wrestling. Against the way they do everything. And that's when I feel like I'm losing ground."
I do love Kyle, and I love that sometimes I'm the one person he can be honest with. But I think what a lot of people don't see is that the insecurity is part and parcel of who he is as a person. Sometimes, I know he doesn't, but I count it as a triumph any time he shows up. But he is never satisfied. "Isn't that what comes along with calling yourself a Game Changer?"
He breaks into a grin, "You have been watching."
"Well yeah, duh." Laughs. "It's not just arrogance though. What you're describing is the fact that you do go against the grain of what they want because you're trying to change things for the better. I mean, it sounds admirable."
"Yeah, well, I've just had to get my balls crushed by a gimp in Amish clothing to get there." Sudden bitterness.
I sigh. I lean into him a little bit, so that our sides are touching. "Listen, you don't need a motivational speech from the plucky ex-girlfriend. You know full well what you're doing, and if you find a formula that enables you to get into the groove, you can do it. You prevailed against the longest odds of your life to win that match against Stormm and get the title shot. You have worked so hard to get to where you are. Don't let anyone, especially yourself, tell you you're not ready for this, because you've been working hard for it, babe."
We don't say anything else for a little while, sitting in companionable silence, but I'm so glad he's here in the moment. Finally, I can hear him say under his breath, "thank you."
The director yells for a cut again, and the bell rings signalling the end of a scene. As the grips and camera crew move away as we go for a break, I see another face making a beeline for us, and I groan internally. Kyle tilts his head with abject curiosity at the suspect swaggering over to us, a shit eating grin plastered all over his Aussie face. "Array! How are ya, darlin, listen, I can't wait until we rehearse the next scene, I wanna run lines for our big heart to heart in bed tonight... and do you think when we do the sex scene they're going to let us - "
"Um. Alastair." I clear my throat and jab a hand over Kyle's way. "This is Kyle."
"Hey man," he says with the glib, vapid million watt smile of a movie star meeting a fan, slapping his hand and reaching as if to sign an autograph.
"My boyfriend."
"...Hey." Alastair becomes a lot more fearful, starting to remove his hand from the handshake.
"We're on a break."
"HOWYADOINPAL" Alastair says with sudden enthusiasm, pumping Kyle's hand, grinning like he's just won an unexpected lottery.
Kyle's face is struggling between amusement and wanting to strangle this interloper, with just a hint of childish jealousy. He half turns to look at me with a smile, and his voice sounds strained. "Hi, Alastair, big fan of your work, I picked up your last movie really cheap in that bin at Walmart. Hahaha. So glad you're working with my girl here."
"Haha, ah man, Array, this guy's a funny one!" the Australian bro is strong in this one, as Alastair remains affable.
"So what movie is this? And who is your character?"
"Oh, man, you don't know? This movie is about a cocky young kid who becomes a wrestler after his mum dies in an accident, and he uses wrestling as a coping mechanism to hide from the real world." Alastair looks incredulous. Then he takes a step back so we can all admire his bulked up physique, his tight pants with video game symbols embroided on, the whole ensemble. "I'm Tyler Zane, the Game Boy!!"
I can audibly hear the tendons in Kyle's neck creaking as he turns his head to look at me, with his mouth a firm line and his eyes screaming. I mouth the words "I am so sorry" back to him.
Kyle extracts himself from my side, putting on a fake smile, "Well, I should let you two rehearse that scene, then."
"Okay, but Kyle," I say, and this time I do take his hand, "Dinner later? We have a lot to talk about..."
He looks down at me softly, and smirks, "Everything the same, love." And he walks off away from the set. Alastair, by my side, looks after him with confusion. "Well, he's a bit of a right cunt in't he?" I slam an elbow into his ribs. Something about watching Kyle walk off on his own hurts. But that's standard operating procedure between he and I. Something always hurts. He's honest with me to a fault, but we hurt over and over. Sometimes I think that I've had more damage, more shit come with a relationship than with any producer getting inappropriate with me ever has.
"Alastair, I'll be right with you, mkay? I'm going to be in my trailer," I tell him, and I finally get to listening to my voicemail. A brusque voice gives me a short message with a phone number, among all the other offers I get in my inbox. But I'm still thinking of me and him when I get to my trailer and finally get to put on a pair of pants for the first time since call to the set. About hurting. And about how we always reach a point where hearts break. The fact is it's usually more mine than his, which does give question to the disparity of who usually holds the power in our relationship. It's a bleak thought, but it's hard to discount. That the gamer is always reluctant to give up control. Even now, when your heroine tries to break off and find her own quest, the player one refuses to let her have her turn fully. I'm thinking about talking with him about this over dinner as I start dialing the number the lady in my voice mail had barked at me.
"I'm glad you finally called me back," says the cigarette-roughed voice on the other end of the line, "I've been going through your agents for a few days now."
"Who am I speaking with?" I say, cautiously, not betraying any emotion.
"My name is Elizabeth Harper, I'm with the Boston Globe, and I'm doing research on a story that has connections to you. You are Array Kadima, daughter of Fazir Kadima, professor of biotech research at MIT, correct?"
"Yees," I say. Me and my dad haven't talked much. Not since he disowned me, and the few times I've tried to come in from the cold. He didn't like his saintly daughter being defiled as he put it. But I get the feeling this isn't about dad.
"I read your article in Orlando, about the incidents that happened on the set of the Vancome shoots and the calendars with Mario d'Affirenze. He's been outted as a serious sexual predator, thanks in part to your talking to the Sun." I can hear the rustling of papers, as if she's looking through notes on the other end.
I don't want to think about Mario on the set. The way he touched me, gently massaging my shoulders, trying to ingratiate himself to me, and then the suggestive things he whispered in my ear that I could do to boost my profile. Talking with the other girls, it was a horror show of realizing that some of them had worked on shoots with him for years, and had to put up with it in silence. It was even more horrifying that some of them said that those that tried to speak out found themselves out of work. There was a blue shield, a code of silence that protected creeps like that in the modelling world, and everywhere.
"If we can speak frankly, Array, this is an unprecedented time in our lives. People are coming out of the shadows with stories of abuse, naming wounds that happened five, ten, twenty years ago. Powerful people are being put in the spotlight, Fierstein, Spacey, and so on... people like Mario d'Affirenze, who victimized a growing number of young girls. The modelling world... it's tough, right? You're 17, and being asked to do these things..."
"I've said all I can say about Mario," I cut Miss Harper off, "I said it all the the Orlando Sun last year, and Mario has lost his career because of it. I don't know what more I can do to get justice for his victims."
"Well, Array, Mario is far from the only predator you've had contact with all of these years. I want to talk to you about MIT. About unsubstantiated rumors of a frat party at Kappa Sigma Mau's chapter in the fall of 2011, and about a group of young high school girls that attended that party."
A stone dropped into the pit of my stomach as I saw where this was leading.
"Rumors say that there was a local plug on campus providing rohypnol, ecstasy, and other goodies to the Kappa Sigma boys, and that some things might have been slipped into a few drinks. Do you know anything about that?"
"I know these things happen at frats all the time," I say quickly, trying not to think of it. It was such a weird time in my life. I was just acting out, sneaking a couple girlfriends into a party I knew about at dad's school. And then, a boy on the lacrosse team was passing me a cup, and everything was a blur, until someone pulled me out of the crowd. As the world was swirling in drunken color, all I remember was his concerned face, pulling me out, like a lifeguard saving someone from the riptide.
"In today's climate, there needs to be accountability for dangerous perpetrators who use their status and influence to steal from underprivileged, don't you agree." Elizabeth Harper said. She was trying to sound sympathetic, which almost but didn't quite work with her cold, businesslike voice.
"I do agree to that," I say, carefully as picking through a minefield. Because I do believe in justice.
"So, don't you think there needs to be accountability for the creep who provided the drugs, and handed them out, knowingly trying to influence the decisions of those not able to consent? Or, say, if an adult in full possession of his faculties was to aid a sixteen year old in running away from home?"
And here we come to the biggest dilemma. Because in a perfect world, none of this would be neccessary. But there are layers of subtlely and nuance, like the way he looked at me when I woke up the morning after, that Miss Harper, sitting in an office at the Boston Globe, can never understand. But in the cold light of day, what's she's describing is a twisted form of truth. Yes, it was abuse. Hashtag, me too. But Kyle... Kyle... I'm sorry for this. Because if Harper has this, there's no way it isn't already out there. It's out, Kyle.
"So if you name him, this hypothetical adult, who contributed to the delinquency and corruption of a minor, you might be helping not only the sixteen year old, wherever she is now, but who knows how many girls out there who've suffered the same fate? Well. Maybe you want to think about this for a while before giving me your version, because all I have are secondhand accounts..."
"I don't have anything to tell you, Miss Harper. I'm sorry."
"Really? Well, Array, my sources say different, but if you want to cover for him..."
"No."
"I'm not covering anything at all."
